It was Goethe, linchpin of the German Romantic literary movement who once declared that "music begins where words end," and it was Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy (1809-47) who was to famously prove the point in his Lieder ohne Worte or Songs without Words. These works, encompassing some eight complete volumes in all (the first came out in print during 1830; five more followed in the years prior to 1845, while the last two were issued after the composer's death) each containing six pieces, were a seminal Germanic response to the world of Romantic miniaturism, and principally, the growing interest amongst composers to distil the rapture of the moment through the medium of the keyboard gem.

Karl Schumann, the famous German musicologist and Lieder scholar, once famously characterized Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte as not simply "Pillars of the piano repertoire," but rather as "a household possession, as widespread in Germany as the Grimm brothers' fairy tales, Ludwig Richter's pictures, or Uhland's poetry ... and no less beloved in Victorian England." During the composer's nineteenth year, Mendelssohn's sister Fanny noted in her diary that "my birthday was celebrated very nicely ... Felix has given me a 'Song without Words' for my album. He has lately written several very beautiful ones." Later, towards the tragically premature end of his life aged just thirty-eight (by which time the Lieder ohne Worte had already become very popular), Mendelssohn volunteered precious little substantive fact about their origins, writing that "even if, in one or other of them, I had a particular word or words in mind, I would not tell anyone, because the same word means different things to different people. Only the songs say the same thing, arouse the same feeling, in everyone—a feeling that cannot be expressed in words."

While it has become fashionable in critical circles to denigrate Mendelssohn's fragile sensibilities as little more than the manifestation of a kind of upper-class dilettantism, we should not forget that in his own way, he was far ahead of the field when it came to recognizing the future direction that music, especially the keyboard miniature, would take. In this regard, Mendelssohn anticipated the new expressive directions to be pursued by Schumann (whose wife Clara did much to popularize the Songs in the concert hall) and Liszt. And beyond these alone, the critic Joan Chissell also points that composers such as Grieg, Brahms, Fauré, and even Bizet also held them in high regard.

Of the six Lieder ohne Worte of the sixth volume, Op. 67, 2, two have titles. Op. 67 No. 4 in C major is the celebrated "Spinnerlied" (Spinning Song) while the last of the set, Op. 67 No. 6 in E major is entitled "Wiegenlied" (or "Berceuse"). The set begins with a straightforward Andante in E flat, and is followed by a terse F sharp minor Allegro leggiero. No. 3 of the set is a tranquil Andante in B flat, while the penultimate "Lied" of the Op. 67 group is a simple B minor movement headed Moderato.

And finally, while these beguiling, some would say simplistic pieces have been slighted as representative of the worst kind of Romantic kitsch, Chissell rightly reminds us that "without all these pieces, how much poorer our understanding would have been of the impressionable heart behind the master-craftsman's façade."

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Some musicologists have treated Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words in a condescending manner, viewing them as small-fry fare typical of the Romantic movement's supposedly undisciplined character. While most of the works are light and of modest scope, they are consistently well crafted and tuneful. If these qualities make them less-worthy compositions, then they are indeed flawed, along with most good music from any period. This E major effort, subtitled "Lullaby," is one of the more enchanting works one will encounter in this series of eight books and more than 50 pieces. Marked Allegretto non troppo, it is livelier than most lullabies, its catchy main theme having a jaunty but graceful gait, and a playful, carefree delicacy, in the end hardly yielding the kind of music a child would likely doze off to. Yet some pianists play the piece at a slower tempo, not quite converting the work into a soothing cradle song, but milking it for its innocence and childlike manner. One can safely observe that this delightful, two-to-three-minute piece will win over most listeners from the sheer charm of its melodic invention.

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This is number five in the sixth book of Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words, the last volume to be published in the composer's lifetime. Two more books were assembled and published posthumously, as well as a handful of individual works appended to this large series. Most of the Songs Without Words pieces imitate the manner of a song or vocal style, and this B minor effort is no exception. Its writing exhibits the features of a part-song and is brilliantly constructed within that framework. Moreover, it offers a main theme of profound beauty, one of Mendelssohn's more compelling creations in this series. Marked Moderato but sounding much slower, this work opens in a dark, melancholy mood, quite unlike the pastoral character suggested by its nickname, "The Shepherd's Complaint." The main theme has a U-shaped contour and exudes a ponderous and touchingly sad spirit. The second subject is brighter in its mostly upper-register sonorities and generally ascending trajectory. A rocking-like rhythmic figure that opened the piece returns to close it out in the same dark mood. This lovely piece typically lasts two-and-a-half minutes.

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This Spinnerlied from spring 1845 is one of a handful of Songs Without Words that Mendelssohn actually gave a more specific title, and the title fits it well. In constant motion, it is a brief, rapid piece in 6/8 meter and the key of C major. It begins with the right hand playing a sixteenth note figure that winds up and down all the notes contained in the minor third between F and A flat. This figure mimics the constant up and down of the treadle that turns the spinning wheel. It becomes the statement of the rondo-like work, returning between each variant of the "song" and as the coda. The "song" itself is played staccato, darting above rocking sixteenth notes. It briefly turns to the minor in its second appearance, as if the fibers being spun were momentarily full of slubs and are not making a smooth thread. But after a little more winding of the original figure, the irregularities are worked out and an even twist is produced. Due to the darting melody, the drone-like figures, and the overall happy outlook, the piece has also been called "The Bee's Wedding."

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